Catching His Breath
by MyLittleYellowBird
Summary: Patrick Turner spends his sleepless nights in the back garden, trying to understand his feelings. Starts out very angst, but there's always hope...
1. Chapter 1: Guilt

Chapter One: Guilt

Patrick stepped into the back garden, cigarette case in his hand, and headed for the small wrought iron bench in the back corner. Taking a seat, he reached underneath for the old coffee can and gave it a shake. He was afraid to guess how many cigarettes he had smoked out here in the last few weeks. Too many, for certain. Lighting up a fresh one, he glanced around the space, his eyes squinting in the darkness. They had never really gotten around to making it more appealing. Neither he nor Margaret was "nesters." In the early months of living here, other things had occupied them: his practice, Timothy, her music. After his wife became ill their little patch fell off the list of priorities entirely. Now it's only use was to prevent the house from smelling like a factory.

In the first year or so after her death, Patrick would stay up late each night, out on a call or completing paperwork until a wave of fatigue would come over him and finally he would go up to bed. Exhausted, he fell asleep immediately only to wake a few hours later unable to settle again. Sometimes a dream would disturb him, or worries. Try as he might to dispel his concerns, his subconscious kept bringing them back to the surface demanding resolution, and he would find himself sitting on this bench filling the old coffee can with cigarette ends. Here, through that long first year he wrangled his grief into a dull ache, so that the mere thought of Margaret was no longer a piercing pain. He could recall her face, her voice, even her beloved music and feel grateful that they had any time at all.

They met accidentally, at a concert. They probably wouldn't have, if not for the war. The war changed everything for everyone. Engaged to her childhood sweetheart months before Hitler began his march through Europe, Margaret's plans centered on the music school she and her cellist would start and the family that would follow, but her cellist put on a private's uniform and was sent to Trondheim. By the time she should have been holding her first recital, she was alone, almost a widow, and working in a government typing pool.

When they met in mid-1946, Patrick was already an overworked G.P. in the East End. As a young man he had dreamed of a career as a Harley Street surgeon, wealthy, respected and settled, but the horrors of war pointed him in another direction. The glamour of his old dreams was tarnished by the blood and agony of the Front and he turned to a community that needed him as much as he needed it. Healthy again, he threw himself into the lives and cares of the poorest of London.

Patrick inhaled deeply on his cigarette. He and Margaret were very different people. She was an extrovert, eager to be out with people, and he buried himself in his work. Somehow a friendship blossomed, perhaps out of loneliness. But loneliness had made them each willing to adjust for the other and by year's end, they were married. Another year passed and they were parents to a happy boy, a clever blend of them both. Drifting into a satisfied marriage firmly set in a true friendship, they were content.

Knowing he shouldn't, Patrick took out another cigarette and lit it with the end of his last. He hadn't smoked this much since that first winter after Margaret died. Then, his confusion and pain emanated from a specific point, clearly named. Now, he felt as though he was in a constant state of free fall, with no way of righting himself. His pain twisted with anxiety, guilt, even shame, and ate away at him.

At first, he attributed his strange new feelings to loneliness and fatigue. Sister Bernadette was a startlingly beautiful woman, after all, and he was a man; he couldn't help but notice. Her eyes were the clearest he had ever seen and he felt as if he could peer right into her very heart. Just weeks ago, alone in the kitchen of the moldy Parish Hall, Patrick glanced up at her in conversation and the connection arced between them like electricity. Stunned speechless, it was only the sound of his son's cheerful voice calling him that brought him back to reality. Patrick left the Hall feigning a composure he was far from feeling.

His head dropped into his hands, defeated. Another scene in that bright kitchen, one he had tried so very hard to banish, filled him with shame. Night after night he had tried to forget the link he had felt with Sister Bernadette. The busyness of the daytime helped to keep it at bay, but alone in the night, he dreamt of her extraordinary eyes and her porcelain skin. Unable to control where his dreams took him, in his sleep he saw her hair (blonde, he thought, he had seen wisps of it escape her wimple during one long delivery) tumbling over her creamy shoulders. Desire would grow in him and he would wake, panting and sweating, consumed by guilt. His judgment became clouded, propelling him to follow her back to the kitchen during the fete.

He had meant it kindly, he swore to himself. Sister Bernadette had been such a help with Timothy, a motherless boy who needed more attention than his father could offer. She took his place when his son needed someone, and been injured in the process. The very least he could do was to offer help. The moment Patrick took her small hand in his, however, he was lost. All reason, all thought fled, and he slipped into a trance. Her hand was so small yet so capable, and his fingertips glided over the faint lines across her palm and trailed over tiny blue veins in her wrist. Instinct took over, and he raised her hand to his lips.

The suddenness of her movement away from him shook him back to reality and he begged her forgiveness. Now, in the dim garden, he could feel his body flush again with shame. He was no adolescent boy, unable to control his urges. He had broken his own rules of respect and morality and pierced her veil of chastity. In her goodness, she had forgiven him, but he knew he had corrupted their friendship irreversibly.

Patrick lifted his head and looked up at the sky. Free from smog and the clouds of the day's rain, he could see Venus in the early dawn. The planet shone brightly, as if speaking to him. "Keep your focus, man," he muttered to himself. He stubbed out the last cigarette of the night and tossed it in with the others. Day was approaching, and with it the duties and responsibilities that gave him direction. He flexed his shoulders and returned to the house.


	2. Chapter 2: Anger

Chapter 2: Anger

Smoke drifted around Patrick's head. Sleep would not come tonight. He looked up at the back of his house and thought of his son, asleep for hours, ignorant of the seismic shift that had occurred in his father's life. Taking a long drag on his cigarette, it occurred to Patrick that with one possible exception, no one would likely ever know.

He ground his teeth at the unfairness of it all. Their triumph in cutting the red tape of the medical board had promised so much. The x-ray van would help them identify the ill and allow the necessary early treatments that would stop the spread of tuberculosis through Poplar. Energized by the chance to work alongside Sister Bernadette in a cause they both believed in, he had felt closer to contentment than he had for a long time. Now that success mocked him.

Anger and frustration rose in his throat, nearly choking him. She had come to him in the dispensary, her face shining with gladness, happy to share in the day's achievement. Their friendship was healed and in that moment he knew how much he had lost. He never expected to love her; his fevered dreams a symptom, not the cause of his true feelings. The impossibility of that love was irrelevant, the simple act of loving her as necessary as breathing. Her existence was enough. But in that sterile, cold room he watched the fear flicker in her eyes before she closed that door to her soul.

Cruelly forced to carry out an examination, they hid behind years of training, blank masks concealing churning emotions. He called upon all his resources and connections in the next days to arrange everything: further examinations and tests, and even found a place for her in the most advanced sanatorium in the country. As he watched Sister Bernadette walk in alone that morning he felt a curious empty ache. His arms had never known the feel of her but he was haunted by the phantom space she left behind.

Patrick stood and paced back and forth like a caged tiger, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He wanted to scream out, roaring blame at her God for showering punishment on her for his transgression. Could it be that simple, he wondered? He had long ago turned away from the belief in a benevolent deity, one who guided and looked over his flock. The horrors of war, man's atrocities against his brethren, even ordinary villainies had all left him unconvinced. Was this God's punishment for Patrick's presumption to love a nun? He had watched those he loved suffer and die often enough to feel the sharp point of blame and clenched his fists in bitterness.

He needed another cigarette. Taking the last one from his case he flicked his lighter angrily again and again, but no flame appeared. A low growl came from deep within him and he blindly threw it across the garden. Breathing heavily, Patrick stood staring at the direction it had taken. Long moments later he travelled its path and knelt to the ground searching for it. He laughed mirthlessly, thinking that the lighter would be easier to find if he could use it to illuminate the ground. Irony had become his constant companion.

Giving up, Patrick stood and tossed the unlit cigarette in the can. He knew even lit, it would have offered no real comfort, no solutions. He sat on the bench again and dropped his head into his hands. Throughout Margaret's long illness he had fought against this God. How could he possibly have the strength to do it again? Why was he given this new love only to suffer for it? Bitter tears stung his eyes and wet his cheeks. He felt the rage leave his body and surrendered to his grief.


	3. Chapter 3: Hope

The hottest day of the year was slowly cooling down. Timothy had escaped the heat of the city, joining his grandparents at a summer cottage. Patrick would drive out to the beach at the end of the week, his first break since before Margaret died. Finding the overheated house too quiet without his boy, Patrick found himself on the garden bench smoking and trying to read from his backlog of medical journals. Before long, his head was dipping into his chest and sleep overtook him.

Startled awake by a neighbor's door slamming, Patrick sat up straight, his reading fallen and forgotten. He shook his head to clear the fog and stretched. Looking around the bare space he grimaced. Not many in Poplar were lucky enough to have outside space; he should find a way to make this more appealing. He lit up a cigarette, knowing the possibility of that was remote. There was never the time, and he wasn't likely to galvanize into action any time soon. Besides, he thought, it suited his gloomy mood.

He lit a cigarette, its' red-tip glowing in the darkening garden. Stretching out his legs, Patrick leaned his head back and reviewed the day. Not an especially difficult Sunday, though he had gone out on several minor calls. A summer cold, stitches from a rugby game gone wrong and a quiet shift at the maternity hospital had kept him busy, if not focused. That was becoming a problem. His best hope of managing this pain was to be so thoroughly concentrated on tasks at hand that there was no time for musing over impossible wishes. With no complicated task before him, Patrick's thoughts would stray dangerous miles away to another.

Tonight, uncaring of the consequences, he let his thoughts drift in that direction. By now, Sister Bernadette was on a full course of the Triple Treatment. He knew the protocol and was confident in her recovery; in the last weeks he had studied enough to take a position at the same sanatorium he hoped would cure her. At this point in the treatment, her hours would be filled with tests and medications, her doctors demanding complete rest. He doubted her body would have enough energy to do more than the most minor of tasks and wondered how she was coping. Patience she had in abundance, but idleness did not sit comfortably on her shoulders. The Order demanded a level of activity that would defeat most, he realized, with a focus on tasks designed to improve the lives of others. Yet even among those industrious nuns, Sister Bernadette was known for her indefatigable energy.

He could imagine her as a child, busily organizing her toys or arranging her family's books, then as a young girl devoted to her plan of study. He already knew that at school she had been at the top of her class. Sister Evangelina had once let it slip that the young nun had been offered a place at a top university before choosing nursing and the religious life. Not for the first time, he wondered if she ever regretted that choice. Did she sometimes wonder what her life might have been like if she had chosen that other path? Would a secular life have satisfied her devout spirit?

It was odd, this sweet pain he felt when he thought of her. No stranger to suffering, Patrick thought he knew its many faces. The anguish caused by the helplessness and futility of patching up soldiers, young men so recently boys, only to send them back into the atrocities of war. The gaping hole left in your heart when you watch a loved one finally succumb to the twisted pain of cancer. The terror of knowing you were left behind with the unthinkable task of raising a small boy alone. For so long, Patrick's pain was tied to grief, anger, helplessness. And suppression. He learned to deny happiness would diminish the pain.

This pain was new to him. It would not be buried. Always there, just below the surface, he could feel his love for her flourish despite its hopelessness. He could feel its healing effects even as he knew its impossibility. She would never love him in return; indeed, she would likely feel little other than marginal friendship for the colleague whose work she respected. Yet he knew he was better for loving her. Knowing that he loved the very best creature on the earth gave him strength. He would not give up this love to avoid its pain.

He grinned a small, lopsided grin. Again, irony carved patterns in his life. He never imagined himself to be a star-crossed lover. The unrequited nature of his devotion did not diminish its power over him. He could not have her, he knew that, but he could make it his life's work to make her life richer, more fulfilling and purposeful. He would start by working to repair their fractured friendship, easing any suffering she might feel because of his past actions.

Darkness took over the sky as Patrick finished his cigarette. The task before him would be difficult. He wasn't good with words, but perhaps he could use his pen to mend their history. And, to be honest with himself, he was eager to re-forge the connection he needed so desperately. This love had opened him to life, and with that, hope.


	4. Chapter 4: Joy

Chapter 4: Joy

Patrick came down the stairs, shaking his head and wearing a grin. He didn't think Timothy would ever get to sleep tonight. Not that Patrick could blame him; he knew he had little chance of sleep himself. Full of nervous energy, he checked his stocked cigarette case and stepped into the back garden.

Funny, he thought as he took his first draw. He couldn't recall smoking a single cigarette since this morning. Not one during the long, anxious drive to the sanatorium, nor the too short drive home. Perhaps there had been one, while he waited at the foot of the stairs of Nonnatus House, knowing Shelagh was taking the last step necessary to step into a new life with him. A smirk replaced the grin as he reasoned that one cigarette to calm his nerves on the most tumultuous day of his life was really quite impressive. He knew, however, that the lack of nicotine wasn't the cause of his restlessness. He could smoke every cigarette in the house and he would still be bursting with exhilaration.

He laughed out loud, unable to contain it. "Shelagh," he breathed. Her name fell from his lips like a sigh. It was a name that promised a world he had never imagined; it changed everything. Her name made it all a reality. Before today, his dreams were ephemeral and elusive; based on an enigma, a woman loved but inscrutable, unattainable. Now, with a moment's introduction, the path to knowing the true woman was open before him.

They hadn't needed many words. Once free from the constraints of her old choices, Shelagh's face opened to him, and he could read all her thoughts and feelings there. Before, her clear blue eyes had fleetingly revealed depths to him, only to shutter himself just before he could see the truth. Today he had looked into her eyes and saw certainty. Today he saw love and his heart pounded with the joy of it.

He had never envisioned a world where Shelagh could love him. Even as he dreamed of her, he would wake to the emptiness of knowing he would always be on the outside of her life. He knew the most he could hope for, if he were ever able to repair the deepest of the fissures in their friendship, was cordiality and respect. Her professionalism and forgiving nature would make it possible for them to work together, but there would be nothing more.

The night before, Patrick secreted away the watercolor she had sent Timothy. Alone in his room, he read her words again and again, trying to find some hidden clue meant only for him. "Thank your father for his kind letters," she had written. He had agonized over those letters before sending them. Would they cause her more pain rather than the healing he had hoped for? Had she forgiven him for his transgressions? She would respond "in due course." Her words were so formal, so distant. Never believing he could hope for more, he had caressed her words with his fingertips, imagining her fingers in the same place.

He thought now of that watercolor, intrepidly replaced before its recipient awoke. There were clues in it, after all. Just as he had, she spent this time in solitude trying to understand the world, and what her point of view would be. She had emerged from this seclusion, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, eager to embrace a new life. Patrick smiled, thinking of how, too impatient to wait to join her new world, she had pushed on: wrong bus, misty long walks mere inconveniences when faced with these new choices. And he was her choice.

When he found her, it was all he could do to keep from holding her close. Her past life of seclusion still stood between them. He hid his need beneath doctorly gestures of concern: checking for fever, warding off chill with his own coat wrapped around her. Her declaration had opened the doors to his own passion, which he would have to repress. He would have to be patient still and give her time to adjust to this new life.

But perhaps not so very patient, he thought, a small smile playing on his lips. After her visit to Nonnatus, just when the confusion seemed to overwhelm her and shut him out, he saw in one unguarded moment how much she needed him. He saw not uncertainty and regret, as he feared, but vulnerability and need. Enchanted, he took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. Determined to treasure and protect her, even from himself, he ended the kiss after all too brief moments. Watching her reaction, he thrilled to see her own disappointment at its brevity. Yes, he would need to be patient, but his patience would be rewarded. Shelagh would love him in every way.

He marveled at this new confidence. Never before had he had such faith with so little evidence. So many things made her love unlikely: the difference in their ages, spiritual faith, life experience. He did not think he was so good a catch, despite the murmurings of the ladies of the district. Overworked and underpaid, he carried responsibilities that few would willingly share. Yet he knew none of this mattered to Shelagh, and he felt the truth of it deep within himself. This love was no side effect of an enormous life change, or simply a sweet temporary dalliance to help distract from life's pain and loneliness. Long an agnostic, Patrick could not help but feel there were larger forces at work. His skeptical mind bowed to a power that had made them not only possible, but a foregone conclusion.

As he put his cigarette out, the glint from his wedding ring caught Patrick's eye. Thoughtfully, he twisted it around his finger. Margaret would be happy for him, he knew. She had never wanted him to mourn for her, but to rejoin life. During their last, long talk, she had told him to take the band off after her funeral, but he wore it still, first out of dedication to her memory, then as protection against the prying eyes of those around him. A widower, he was an object of interest, and it's absence would have been interpreted as open season on the doctor, or worse yet, given hints to the feelings he had tried to hide for so long. He would offer no proof as to the growth of his love for Shelagh for fear that she would not welcome the attention. Coming to a decision, he slipped the ring off and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. Tonight, he would put it in the mahogany box on his dresser, saved with his other memories.

Today, he began to live again.


	5. Chapter 5: Distance

Chapter Five: Distance

The front door clicked loudly as Patrick closed it behind him. He stood uncertainly in the dark hallway, unsure of where to go. His wife and son were upstairs by now, long asleep. After his hasty departure that evening, he had found himself at the surgery. There, he could bury himself in his work and put the difficulty of the evening's interview behind him. When he telephoned, late, to tell them he would be out for hours more he was grateful that Timothy had answered. He still couldn't face Shelagh, even over the phone, and he suspected it was no coincidence that Tim had taken the call.

He glanced up the stairs and could see no light coming from under their bedroom door. Sighing heavily, he knew he could not climb the stairs to his wife. Instead, he headed to the back garden. Once his refuge, he had spent little time here since Shelagh came into his life. Too cold and uncomfortable for her during the winter of their extended courtship, the back garden became an afterthought. He preferred to be with her in the warmth and comfort of the sitting room. The space that had at one time been the only place he could wrestle his demons was abandoned.

He took out his nearly depleted cigarette case and started his umpteenth of the night. So now she knew. There were few people now that knew of that time in his life. His parents were both long dead, and his brothers were aware only of an hospitalization, not its cause. The war had separated him from his friends, reunions stalled by the slow return of the nation to peacetime. Even Margaret knew only of a vague time when he was sent to rest. She never asked questions, just as he never asked of her cellist.

He knew why he had never told Shelagh. He told the truth tonight when he said he managed by keeping it behind him. For eight long months he struggled to come to peace with the horrors he had seen in the destroyed cities of Europe: the death, the complete inhumanity of mankind. Yet the therapies used at Northfield hadn't helped. All his life he had been a team player, followed the expectations of others. Even while he chafed at the strictures of military life, he did his duty. Patrick Turner always did his duty. But group time, even the one-on-one sessions with Dr. Main kept the suffering at the surface and he couldn't breathe under the strain. For the first time in his life, Patrick became the difficult one. He stirred up trouble with the other patients. He resisted treatments. By the fall, his doctors worried that he would never recover. Desperate to heal the destroyed man, Dr. Main changed the course of treatment. Rather than talking through his experiences, Patrick was taught to sublimate his pain into the service of others. By reaching out to those so desperately in need, he could begin to make amends for the atrocities he had seen. The hope was that through service he could begin to heal on his own. Poplar, with its desperately poor population, provided exactly the opportunity he needed.

Patrick sat quietly for a long time, willing his mind to a blankness that wouldn't come. For some time now the memories had begun to resurface. Twice while Timothy was in hospital he awoke from terrible dreams, his mind full of images of starved, broken bodies tossed away like rubbish and then again when Shelagh was at Tim Horinger's clinic. His first thought was to find her, to tell her of his pain. He wanted to share with her, tell her of the dark, terrible time, but something in him resisted. Instead, he avoided any discussion of his war experiences. Shelagh was strong, he knew, with a wealth of compassion he knew would equip her with the strength to support him.

And that was precisely why he did not tell her.

Shelagh had given him more than her love. She gave him peace. Her love filled in his empty places. After six months of marriage, and the time before, he still could not understand why she had left her life behind for him. She was so completely everything he could want, and somehow she had chosen him. He was not the easy choice, he knew, so he hid parts of himself from her. Shelagh had already disregarded the many reasons why she should not love him; he did not want to give her the most potent of all. He knew she did not think he was perfect, far from it, but she could think of him as her protector. If she knew how weak and flawed he was, her love might grow cold, her feelings based on duty and commitment rather than the exquisite and profound devotion he had known.

He felt a spasm of pain in his chest as he considered that loss. How could he bear it if her love cooled? Panic rising, he threw his cigarette to the ground. He buried his face in his hands and felt hot tears sting his eyes. In that moment of fear and loss something shifted and Patrick felt an anger he couldn't name. Anger at that woman from the agency, at the damned disease that robbed them of their chance to make a baby of their own, at God for showing him a glimpse of true happiness before snatching it back. And there, hiding in the back corner of his mind, was anger at Shelagh herself. _She_ dragged this out in the open. She had pushed them into this adoption business. Why? Weren't he and Tim good enough for her? Even as he thought this, he knew he was being unfair, but he couldn't stop. She didn't understand the effort he made to control these memories. She was too young; she hadn't seen the horrors of war. She spent the war on a farm in Northern Scotland, far from the battle lines, far from the abomination of war. Who was she to back him into this corner?

Exhausted, Patrick turned back to the house. He would not climb the stairs to Shelagh tonight. To be near her would be like rubbing salt into his wounds. He needed space. He would manage this, just as he had always done, and he began rebuilding the walls that would block out the past.

Only this time, there was the nagging doubt that he wasn't blocking the past out, but blocking himself in.


	6. Chapter 6: Regrowth

A/N:This chapter refers back to my story "Tiptoes in the Garden."

* * *

Left alone in the back garden, Patrick looked up at the bright moon. Shelagh's voice drifted from the nursery window, a lullaby to soothe their daughter after she woke in the night. In his mind's eye, Patrick could see his girls swaying to the soft tune, Angela's head buried in the crook of her mother's neck. He smiled and began to clear a bit of Shelagh's makeshift garden retreat. It was nice out here, he had to admit. They had spent a lovely evening under the fairylights in her temporary oasis, talking, dancing, kissing.

A garden would certainly be a better use of the space than before, not that it had ever had much of a purpose. Tim rarely used the empty place, and now that Patrick was putting his smoking days behind him ( he was down to just three or four a week, and those always at the clinic), a new leaf would be a good thing. He smirked at the garden pun, thinking he would save that one for Timothy. The boy _did_ hate his father's puns.

As he gathered items to go back in the house, Patrick thought of all the times he had come out here to wrestle his worries, smoking like a chimney. He recalled that summer and fall nearly two years ago, when he had struggled out here with his feelings of guilt, convinced that he had brought pain to the woman he was learning he loved so well. The devastation he felt at her diagnosis, only able to give vent to his pain in this solitary spot. This place had seen him at his lowest: when he believed his life would never know the richness of her love, then later, when he believed though he once had it, her love would disappear.

His forehead furrowed and his eyes darkened at those remembrances. He wished he could go back and tell his tortured past-self of how wonderful his life was now. Just to say, _Hang in there, lad. Happiness is coming. Have faith._

The last candles in his hands, Patrick looked around one more time. A new space would be quite nice, he thought, but it wouldn't hurt to make Shelagh work just a little bit more to convince him. Maybe she needed practice with the liniment. Eagerly, he closed the back door and made his way up the stairs to his wife.


	7. Epilogue

The air was crisp with autumn coolness, clean from the previous day's rain. Patrick stood at the open doors of the garden shed searching for his garden gloves.

"Angela, have you seen my gloves?" he called over his shoulder. Just last week his daughter had held a puppet show out here, his garden tools the featured players.

"Nope," sang Angela. "Sorry, Daddy."

"Not 'Nope,' young lady. Say 'No,' please."

"No, please," she giggled.

Patrick grinned. "You are too charming for your own good, miss. Come help me look in the shed, please. You've left a mess behind."

"Sorry, Daddy. Shall I clean up now? I can help you," Angela slipped her hand in his. "You know what Mummy says about a mess."

Patrick clicked his tongue to his teeth. "I hadn't heard. What _does_ Mummy say about a mess?" Tilting his head, he assumed a look of innocence that did not convince the young girl that he was ignorant of his wife's oft-repeated line.

"You know, Daddy. She says it to _you_ all the time. "A little mess now-"

"Makes a bigger mess later!" Patrick finished. "Well, then, Miss Turner, let's start with the rakes and spades. We'll get this shed straightened up in a jiffy, then we can do the fun work."

Before long, the tools were sorted and a large collection of flower pots teetered against the shed wall. Angela peered into the dim space, searching for the old tan gloves. "It'd probably help if the gloves weren't the same color as everything else," Patrick muttered.

Angela stepped in and looked behind the workbench. Resurfacing, she held out an old can to her father. "What's this, Daddy? It looks like rubbish."

Patrick took the old coffee can from her small hands. He laughed softly and shook his head. "This is an old coffee can," he told her.

"Yes, Daddy. I can read the label. I'm almost six, you know."

He tilted his head as he smiled down. "Hmm, as old as that? Well, sweetheart, this is a very special coffee can." He held it out for her to examine the contents closely.

"Daddy," she gasped. "There are cigarette ends in there. Millions of them!" Angela was shocked. Her parents had warned her many times of the dangers of smoking. "Who put them here?"

Patrick crouched down and met his daughter's eyes. "Angela, you're grown up enough to hear an old secret. It was me. I used to smoke."

Angela's eyes grew very round. "But Daddy, they're so very bad for you. You tell me that all the time. You never do bad things."

His hand came up to stroke her hair. "Well, I try not to. I started a long time before we knew smoking was bad for you," he admitted. "And once you start smoking, it's very hard to stop. You're lucky. You already know how bad they are for you. You'll never start, so you won't have to work so hard to quit like I did."

Angela considered this for a moment. "So if you had known what I know, you never would have started?" she asked.

Patrick let out a breath. "I'd like to think so," he hedged.

"How long did you smoke?"

"Oh, years. Maybe thirty." He grimaced, remembering.

"Thirty years!" Angela cried, her voice very serious. "Daddy, that's a terribly long time. When did you stop?"

"When you were a baby. I decided I wanted to dance at your wedding."

"Eww. I am _not_ getting married, Daddy. Jimmy Croft asked me the other day in the playground, but I told him I was _never_ getting married. I want to live with Mummy and you and Timmy forever." Angela confided.

"Forever, eh?" laughed Patrick. "I have to say I like the sound of that. And you tell Jimmy Croft a gentleman always speaks to a lady's father first." He stood up, grunting as his knees complained. "We should get rid of this can."

"Were you collecting the ends, Daddy? Like Timmy's butterflies? Or your compasses?" Angela wrinkled her nose. She liked the idea of collections, but this one seemed very strange, indeed.

"No. It's not a collection. It was a sort of ash tray. I used to come outside to smoke and think sometimes, and I suppose I never threw them away."

"What would you think about?"

"Oh, lots of things." He looked towards the house and could see his wife in the kitchen window, smiling at them. He smiled back, and Angela turned to see. With a wave to her mother she asked, "Did you come out here to think about Mummy?" she asked. "Jimmy says that a man has to think long and hard before he can ask a lady to marry him. Did you think about marrying Mummy out here?"

Patrick shook his head in amazement. He was going to have to watch that Jimmy Croft. "Yes, I did think about Mummy out here. I knew I'd have to work very hard to convince her to marry me someday. She's rather special, you know."

Angela grinned up at him. "Daddy, Mummy is the most special person, ever. Even Sister Julienne says so, and she's never wrong."

"No, she's never wrong," he agreed quietly. His mind raced back to those long months of heartache. Even now, Shelagh safe and healthy, bound to him in vows of devotion for eternity, he felt the poignancy of those dark nights alone. The fear and dread that had engulfed him when he thought she was lost to him, the shame of being the source of any pain to her, the torment he felt when he thought he would lose her due to his own past dark chapters, all flooded his memory.

"I guess you had to think a lot if you smoked this many cigarettes, Daddy."

Angela's voice brought him back to the present. With a deep breath he replied, "I certainly did, Angel girl."

"But Mummy did marry you, Daddy. Why do you look sad?"

Smiling his lopsided grin, he answered, "Not sad now, sweetheart, grateful. But I was very sad before Mummy married me. For a very long time, I didn't think she would." He tugged a lock of her hair. "But she did, and we have Tim, and we have you. Now you'd better get in there and find my gloves or we'll never get Mummy's tulip bulbs planted."

Angela skipped into the shed. Soon, her head peeked around the door. "Daddy, we should bury the old can, too. That way your hopes to marry Mummy can help feed her flowers."

Later, as the sun began to set over the neat garden, Shelagh found Patrick sitting on the old bench in the corner.

"Angela's gone up to take an early bath. How that child can get so dirty I will never know." She stood next to her husband, her hand caressing his shoulders. Patrick reached around and swung his wife on to his lap.

"Patrick," she protested.

Grinning into her neck, he answered: "Shelagh."

Giving in, Shelagh wrapped her arms around him, her head resting against his. "This is a lovely spot," she said.

"Mmhmm." Patrick agreed. His lips had found her ear.

"What were you and Angela talking about out here?" She removed a dried leaf from his hair. He would need a bath tonight, too.

"My sordid past."

"Really. I'm surprised she's not still out here. Which disgraceful chapter today?" she teased.

"Smoking."

"Oh. That." Shelagh looked up, meeting her husband's eyes. "Any tarnish on the shining armour?"

"No, I think she's fine. I told her how it was to hard to quit, but that you all meant so much to me that it was worth it." He nuzzled her neck, making promises for later. "And I told her how I brooded over you. The little romantic in her approved of that. Though I pity poor Jimmy Croft."

Laughing, Shelagh answered, "I know. Poor boy. She'll trample his little heart."

Pushing off his lap, she continued, "Dinner's almost ready, and you need to get cleaned up, too. Timothy's going out again, so you'll have to hurry." Suddenly, Shelagh started. "Patrick! You didn't tell her I'd smoked with you sometimes?"

Closing the shed door, Patrick grinned wickedly at his wife. "No, dear. She's not ready yet for that dark chapter."


End file.
